


Moonflower Ghosts

by firstloveghost



Series: the stars shine, and it's magical [1]
Category: Monsta X (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Fluff, Ghosts, M/M, Magic Mirrors, a whole lot of plant symbolism, and a monster, but mixed with surrealism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-20
Updated: 2019-09-20
Packaged: 2020-10-24 22:49:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20713820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firstloveghost/pseuds/firstloveghost
Summary: Changkyun suddenly has ghosts spilling from his fingertips. His world turns opaque, somewhat hazy.Hoseok is magic. He lives in the house of mirrors, and his voice sounds like bells.Everything feels dreamlike, and nothing hurts. It's safe....Isn't it?





	Moonflower Ghosts

Changkyun is told to go to the house of mirrors, right in the beginning. Someone assures him it’s the only place to be, in his situation. There, he’ll be safe and welcomed home.

He kind of doesn’t want to.

His memory gets foggy as soon as he decides not to go; the days start passing by three by three.

He faints, just once, and wakes up in the hospital.

Turns out doctors aren’t much help, when you have ghosts spilling from the tips of your fingers.

Brain doctors, heart doctors, skin doctors, lots of words Changkyun doesn’t understand. They all blink and scribble and blink and scribble. Direct him to a different type of doctor. First it’s chemistry, then microbiology, some alchemy.

Their hypothesis almost flow backwards, the terms sound made up.

In the end, the flesh-and-bones seem to know nothing.

Changkyun is an unimpressed patient zero, refuses to get any more tests done. And life goes on.

☉

There are missing pieces here and there, that much he knows. His schedule is an half-finished puzzle.

Home,  _ something _ , class, coffee break,  _ something else _ , a rooftop maybe, home again.

Sleep sleep sleep. Changkyun is a little more tired than yesterday.

And then the familiar road gets unfamiliar.

Faces and colors and quotes blur and blend together.

He pays it no mind, remembers people by perfume.

There is a diary somewhere, but it gets lost and Changkyun forgets about it entirely.

The air gets cold, occasionally, and surfaces opaque, like light can’t reflect properly on them anymore.

Nights are tinted purple, for no reason, but his glasses are fine, old and heavy and trustworthy.

A few times, sighs fill Changkyun’s ears to the brim, until he can’t make out any other noise. It always feels like he’s surrounded by a morning crowd, then; sleepy and polite, people try to board their train, reach their destination.

There is fuzzy static on the back of his tongue.

Changkyun doesn’t particularly mind, so it’s been a few weeks, at least. There is no pain, no ache.

But the waitress of the cheap diner around the corner refuses to bring coffee to his table when she sees pale shadows dance around his nails.

She says it’s disturbing, he just wants to finish writing his essay. Now he needs to find a new cafe, or something.

It’s boring there anyways, and more often than not, Changkyun unplugs his laptop, lets it sleep a dreamless sleep.

He grabs a bunch of napkins instead, unfurls lyrics and poetry altogether, empties a lot of half-full pens.

He realizes he must look crazy, dull hands smeared black. He pockets everything and goes home, doesn’t turn back.

Four days pass, Changkyun is pretty sure, and the mumbles around him start bugging him. The flesh-and-bones can’t seem to regulate their volumes, his neighbors can only get louder. He really wants to sleep.

It’s after one more week, or maybe it’s two, that he becomes aware of the longing. Deep and dense, it blooms like an anemone in the intersections of his spine.

Changkyun misses the blue hue of the starry sky, feels like it’s important. The column of his throat feels full, so full, as he remembers the moonlight, shining over his hometown.

Forty-eight hours pass. Changkyun’s dreams turn into nightmares, wasps drinking blood from puddles on the concrete.

He wakes up, sweaty and ashen and tired to the bone. His left eye only sees the blacks and the whites.

In the end, Changkyun goes to the house of mirrors.

☉

Changkyun’s belongings only fill one big suitcase. It’s books and hoodies, just that. He drops it in his old room, opens it on the bed.

The dust around him jumps up and freezes mid-air.

Changkyun can’t tell the time at all, by then.

He’s not sure how he managed to get back to his hometown, to his old house. Not sure why he had left in the first place.

The world moves slow and mellow.

When he tries to read the clock by the stairs, its hands curl inwards.

Sunset or sunrise, May or October, Changkyun’s thoughts have all been replaced by syrup.

Syrup reminds him of his old aunt, and the way she smelled, sweet, real. She used to worry over anything and everything.

There’s a sigh, but Changkyun isn’t sure it comes from himself.

He digs in the suitcase and a flower finds his hand.

It’s a lilac, and it’s cute. Changkyun can’t tell its color, which is confusing. A second it’s white, the other is purple. Once it turns a dull gray, there is no way to tell.

It’s being used as the bookmark of a novel, pressed comfortably against the pages. Patches of paper are stained black thanks to it.

Changkyun grabs the book, holds it tight against his chest. Breaths out and puts it back. He carefully pockets the lilac, for no reason.

He then paces the whole house, turns on all the lights.

He doesn’t want the purple tint of the night to get in; doesn’t want it to touch the long leaves of the fern in the kitchen. He’s not sure why.

Changkyun is not scared, exactly. His heart is beating too slow for him to be. It feels unpleasant, mostly.

A vague discomfort that accompanies the movement of his lashes when he blinks.

And there are big burn holes in his memories, that isn’t nice. Filmy threat connecting things; the essay he was working on, a train ride to somewhere, lampposts and photographs.

He clearly remembers his name, his aunt, the house of mirrors. That’s about it.

Changkyun’s hand looks too pale, as he grabs the doorknob and steps out.

☉

The house of mirrors is actually just down the street, and it’s a humble thing. One story, no stairs, no stars. It has always been there, been magic.

Changkyun hates it; hates them, the mirrors.

There’s so many, the walls lined with them up and down, left and right. They leave no place to hide.

Mismatched frames help give back a bizarre mosaic of his features.

It feels like his own reflection is a portrait on a journey to nowhere, as he passes by them. Down the narrow corridor, minty walls and purple rugs.

Everything looks old, and nothing moves. His steps make no noise, but Changkyun doesn’t trust his ears anymore.

The door he approaches is unnecessarily tall. He follows its edges, gaze losing focus on the ceiling, painted a deep blue. A starry night sky.

Something stirs deep inside him, serpents curling around his lungs.

Changkyun blinks wetly for a while, until someone coughs.

It’s such a loud noise, after an eternity of static. He can’t help but jump in the air.

A guy giggles, it’s a boyish thing. He hides his teeth behind the back of a hand, but the mirth in his eyes can’t be concealed.

Changkyun’s heart gets pulled in every direction at once. It’s bittersweet, it almost hurts. It’s over in a moment.

The stranger looks young, around his age, just a little taller, a little older. His hair is dark, toned petroleum. His eyes are darker.

He looks firm, too, and mighty. In his muscles, nerves and tendons lie the odds of snapping Changkyun’s neck in half without breaking a sweat.

Yet his ears are cute; his clothes look warm, inviting. The boy looks warm, inviting. Changkyun feels lost in a watery dream.

He’s not scared, even if maybe he should be. It surely wouldn’t be the only thing wrong with him, in that moment. That’s his guess.

The guy is still smiling, fingers dancing aimlessly on his own chin. He’s studying him, a hint of curiosity in his dark eyes.

It’s kind of distracting.

Changkyun tries to speak, to say something, probably something stupid. But it doesn’t work.

His mouth parts on nothing but a croaky sound. His ears ring and the sky painted on the ceiling turns grey for a long second.

The guy stops smiling, then. A crease between his brows, his lips pursed. “We should get you some tea.” is what he says.

His voice cuts through the white noise in Changkyun’s mind, clean and pristine like a bell. There’s a softness he wants to get used to, there, in his tone.

Changkyun isn’t sure how he manages to agree, but the point must get across, because the next time he blinks, he is sitting on the plush cushion of an old sofa.

It’s orange, cottony, it makes him sleepy. He should really sleep. That is, if he isn’t already.

He could sink into the pleasant heat coming from his core, there, lost in his underwater dream. Let his lashes flutter close, never to open again.

The ghosts would watch over him and the things that once were his. The dust would settle over his frame, and the centuries would pile up on top of his tender limbs. A vague sadness would accompany him as he’d dream of fern and purple hyacinth.

The guy comes back into his field of vision, so Changkyun doesn’t sleep. His consciousness feels smoky.

The guy hands him a pretty teacup and holds his hands over Changkyun’s until he’s sure Changkyun will not spill tea on himself.

He sits on the other end of the orange sofa, holding his own pretty teacup.

Changkyun tries to thank him, but he spots the bookshelves on his right getting sadly matte. Nothing hurts yet nothing works. He isn’t sure he should speak anymore.

It’s a sad thought.

The guy places a tiepid hand on his thigh and it’s soothing. Makes him feel a little less like a hunted statue of stone.

“I’m Hoseok.” he says, “I don’t know your name yet, but that’s okay.”

Hoseok smiles, sips his tea, acts like Changkyun doesn’t have ghosts pooling out of his hangnails.

It’s nice and nothing hurts just yet.

☉

Hoseok is a gentle presence.

All Changkyun wants to do is curl up against him, on the orange sofa. Listen to him speak, listen to him sing. He’s sure it’d sound like bells. Hoseok smells like a flowerfield and Changkyun thinks it’s important. It’s important and there is something he should remember but he can’t. He still can’t speak.

Changkyun’s fingertips curl, as if the action could help keep the ghosts at bay. He’s not sure it works at all.

He sits on the sofa, but Hoseok isn’t talking, isn’t singing, isn’t pressing against his side. He simply exists, a human flowerfield.

Like bright sunflowers next to little daisies against summer clouds.

Like morning dew hitting blue and orange tulips.

A flowerfield. Like the one blooming next to his kindergarten, tall red poppies swaying with the wind.

Changkyun blinks and it sounds like shattered glass on the floor, somewhere in the house.

Hoseok is quick on his feet, tells him to stay there, not to move, it’s gonna be alright. But when Changkyun blinks again, the room is dark and Hoseok is nowhere to be seen.

His hands rush to find the lightswitch, but there is purple, dripping from the edges of the sofa.

He feels it then, something tugging his intestines down. Down, down under the floorboards underneath his feet.

It sounds like wasps drinking blood from puddles on the concrete.

Changkyun wants to stay, sit on the orange sofa, wait for the night to pass. There is just no point, though, if Hoseok isn’t there.

The tea has long since gone cold.

Changkyun moves, wanders, and the ghosts follow him around the house of mirrors.

☉

The air is crisp and the marble cold.

Changkyun feels himself shiver, can’t remember when he lost his shoes. The skin of his hands feels dry, stretched to its limit.

The room around him is still, so still. The light bulbs glow quietly, they seem tired. The mirrors overflow from the walls.

Changkyun can clearly see the reflection of his bony wrists from where he stands and thinks, “I have never liked my wrists. They’re so fragile, they’re so easy to break. They make  _ me  _ so easy to break.”

It smells of lobelias, dark and malicious.

Changkyun’s vision goes gray every three blinks of his lashes.

There is a deep sigh in his ears as he steps forward.

The mirrors look at him with something akin to pity, he’s not sure how they manage it. They tell him, “Brace yourself.”, and ask him to get a little closer.

Changkyun does and opaque shapes emerge all at once, surround him. They line up, fill his field of vision, brush his skin. An ocean, a morning crowd waiting for the train ride.

He can see them all, against the walls of mirrors. Not silhouettes, not entities, nothing doctors could help with.

They’re people, old souls. Once flash-and-bones, then intangible and scared. Everyone is so scared.

It blooms in Changkyun’s ribcage too, the timid panic, barely contained in the boundaries of his bones. Losing control of his body, of his memories, of his heart. It’s slow and suffocating.

The next time he blinks, he’s already crying. Fat tears roll down his face, and they don’t reflect the light properly. It’s so scary.

The ghosts try to talk to him, their lips move, form words, but no sound reaches him. His own hiccups echo against the ceiling, all by themselves.

Changkyun keeps on weeping, gestures helplessly to his ears.

The ghosts and the mirrors and the house all wobble around him.

He forces himself to take a deep breath, wipes at his eyes, cleans his glasses with the too long sleeve of his hoodie.

He looks around and thinks, or tries to anyway.

He edges close to a massive mirror, framed by something antique and intricated. He blows lightly on its surface, and it allows it.

With the tip of his finger, he writes, “Sorry. Can’t hear. Want to help.”

The deep desperation he feels at the bottom of his lungs eases into something more demure.

A woman steps out of the crowd, takes place next to Changkyun. She has tender eyes.

Despite her vivid worry, she still smiles at him, and it’s gentle, soothing. Changkyun knows, then, she was a mother, once.

She blows on the mirror, outlines the words carefully.

“Purple flower. Find him. Please.”

Changkyun’s eyes flicker, shiny and surprised. He puts a hand in his pocket and there it is, the lilac. It’s a shy thing, pale and fragile. It reminds him of spring sunrises and honey milk and giggles hidden behind the back of a hand.

“Hoseok.” he whispers. The ghosts disappear.

☉

Changkyun runs, runs. He pushes open a door and finds himself in the kitchen of the house.

A big window lets the moonlight settle in as it pleases, tint the superficies blue and gray. The cabinet displays a row of pretty teacups.

There is an upright piano, against the wall, and it’s a modest instrument. It looks well loved. Changkyun thinks it’d be nice, to play it, to let his fingers brush its keys. Hoseok could sing with his voice that sounds like bells. It’d be nice.

Changkyun keeps the dream safe, in the hollow of his throat.

He steps out and takes off running again.

☉

The lilac flower in his hand drips translucent drops, like it’s weeping. It’s miserable and Changkyun knows then, he’s out of time.

Hoseok is nowhere to be found, in his house of mirrors that is just that, a house. One story, no stairs, no stars.

Changkyun pants, thinks, runs a hurried hand through his hair, against his temples. He knocks his glasses off and they fall on the floor. They make a ugly noise as they break. He grimaces as he bends to pick the pieces up. Scoops them up in his hand. The world gets just a little blurrier. A fragment of glass scrapes the tip of his finger.

Suddenly, Changkyun gets it, he gets it.

There was no glass anywhere, in the house. Nowhere at all. But something broke, he remembers it clearly.

Hoseok had left to inspect the noise, never came back.

There isn’t time for the longing, the ache that makes its home inside him.

There has to be a place he hasn’t seen yet, glass shards scattered on the floor. That’s where Hoseok is. He just has to find it.

Changkyun breaths in, fills his lungs with air. There is only one way, and it scares him shitless. He braces himself.

The hand he places on the mirror kind of shakes.

The room turns a dense purple.

☉

Changkyun looks around, but he’s still alone. The house looks the same, he hasn’t moved an inch.

There is a liquid skin though, on the mirrors. It’s dark, so dark, doesn’t let any light pass through. Changkyun understands, he’s somewhere else, or nowhere at all. Hoseok must be there too, he thinks,  _ close _ .

It’s honestly pretty creepy, and nothing moves. The bottom of his feet make no sound as he moves. When he checks the living room, the orange sofa is hanging upside down, planted firmly on the ceiling. Changkyun blinks at it, unimpressed.

He turns around, keeps on walking.

The kitchen is also the same, just an empty kettle resting on the counter. The piano looks a little dustier.

Changkyun moves on.

He checks it last, the marble-floored room.

While not remembering how he got there the first time, it isn’t that hard to find, just down the corridor, to the very left.

Changkyun grips the doorknob, and it’s so cold.

In there, Hoseok, and something else too. There is no mistaking it.

The starry sky painted over his head wishes him good luck.

He rushes in.

☉

The house of mirrors is old, older than Changkyun will ever be.

It is a humble home, has seen a lot of magic. There are pretty teacups and ghosts and hidden ways. The ceilings are beautifully painted and the doors are somewhat too tall. Changkyun is sure, the house of mirrors isn’t made for evil.

Knowing that makes it all worse, when he opens the door.

A horrible being slowly turns to him, from where it is looming over Hoseok’s body, weak against the marble. Mirrors shards surround them both.

The monster seems to suck in all the light from the room. Looking at it for a second too long makes Changkyun’s vision go gray.

It’s wearing some sort of mask, disgustingly looking like it’s made of dull bones. When it moves, it sounds like wasps drinking blood from puddles on the concrete.

“Run, please!” Hoseok screams, pained and high-pitched. With great effort, he pushes himself onto his knees, chest rising and falling forcefully.

Changkyun wants to, but will not. There is just no way he’s fleeing, letting Hoseok die. The house, the ghosts, his own heart, they would never forgive him.

“I’m not leaving you.” he says, and his hoarse timbre makes him sound braver than he feels. He has no idea what to do.

The creature stares at him, sways a little left and right, curious like a child.

Hoseok is also looking at him, like he’s lost his mind, and Changkyun thinks he might be right. He also feels like he is exactly where he needs to be. He manages a smile, lopsided and exhausted.

“It’s Changkyun, by the way.”

Changkyun closes his eyes then, lets the tight feel of his skin around his fingertips take over. Deep sighs fill his ears to the brim and his mind swirls technicolor. Everything hurts.

All around him, the morning crowd boards the train.

☉

Changkyun has no idea what time it is, but that’s fine. The orange sofa is too comfortable, opening his eyes too bothersome. He could use a for a few more minutes of sleep anyway.

There is warmth, pressed close against his side, a soft cheek resting on his chest. Changkyun lips curl up lazily and he breathes in deep.

“Your heartbeat is so loud, Changkyun.” Hoseok says, words a little blurred together. He sighs, but otherwise doesn’t move.

Changkyun chuckles lightly, blindly reaches down to thread his fingers through Hoseok’s hair. “You always say that.”

“Because it’s true.”

The warmth spreads all over, touches every corner inside him. Hoseok is so weird when he’s half-asleep.

“I’m not the one who insists on pressing his ear against it, you know.” he teases, opening one eye, then the other. The sunset sun dyes the room a pleasant pink, feeds the lilac flowers resting on the coffee table. Changkyun thinks about buying new ones, maybe add some plumeria to the bouquet, turn it into a gift for Hoseok.

The boy deserves it, especially after letting him skip his turn cleaning the mirrors.

Magic or not, Changkyun still doesn’t like them too much. Respects them, but doesn’t like them too much. He thinks the feeling might be mutual.

Hoseok purses his lips, turns his face into a funny expression. The back of his neck feels a little hotter than before. “Don’t make fun of me.”

Changkyun lets out another soft puff of laughter.

Hoseok yawns then, lets his lashes flutter open. When he meets Changkyun’s adoring gaze, he smiles, unguarded and careless. It’s so dopey Changkyun can’t help himself.

He bends down, guides Hoseok’s face up a little, and kisses him.

When their lips meet, it’s sweet and dreamy and creamy. Changkyun almost thinks someone must have replaced his brain with tiramisu. It’s a silly thought until his stomach makes a loud sound.

Hoseok laughs against him, and there’s too much teeth to kiss anymore. Changkyun laughs too, because maybe Hoseok isn’t the only weirdo, half-asleep.

That, and he’s craving dessert now.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading this, i honestly am not sure where it came from  
its my first monsta x work, now that i think about it, and boy do i wanna write more (aahh)  
the writing style here is a lot looser than im used to, so im not too confident posting this  
i hope the feelings get across anyway  
i wish you good dreams only  
-hao (twt @eviloolong)


End file.
